Nam Bits
by Empty Promise
Summary: From the DMZ to the Delta, Vietnam is awash with flames as war rages in the skies, waves and the ground in the largest war against the Neuroi since the 40s. Take a backseat with Fighter Jocks in skies full of fire, or sweat filled patrols through the jungles on S&D ops as life and death drift back and forth on the scales.
1. Khe Sanh Blues

**Khe Sahn 1967**

United States Air Force Lieutenant Audrey Gains felt like she'd been sucker punched by a speeding train as she lay fallen across the ground, the canopy of trees above her was cracked and broken, likely from her hard landing. She took in deep breath of air, trying to make the pain in her chest lessen. After a few deep breaths, she slowly regained her wits. She realized after a moment something shocking, she hadn't crashed.

She'd been shot down. Shot down by enemy forces. The same enemy that was, most likely, on its way to come and get her as she sat here thinking. Standing, the remains of her strikers, A-1 Skyraiders in the mud and lime Air Force shade were wrecked, the props bent out of shape, and skin covered in holes that showed her bare legs. Pulling them free, she tossed the remains of her flight helmet aside, the tinted visor cracked, and found a sea of green and brown around her. A quick look left and right told her that her weapon hadn't made it either, the outdated Browning's barrel was twisted into a crazy angle, pulling her 38. from her shoulder holster, she realized the irony, she'd complained in the past about carrying a side arm, and now it was all she had between her and god knew what.

God...

She sighed. Sometimes it seemed God has a sick sense of humor didn't he?

 **Four Kilometers away, Hill 881S, United States Marine Outpost**

Sgt Joseph Wheeler Crest, or simply "Sergeant Crest" to any of the marines in his platoon, knew the moment the Lieutenant Beck's face twisted as he held the PRC's receiver to his ear, they were in for a hell of a job. The LT told him that a Witch had been shot down well providing fire to some of the troops stationed at the Lang Vei Special Forces camp, several miles away, they'd all heard it, sounds of a battle bouncing off the hills around them, and now, it seemed they had the job of getting her back in one piece.

"Brass never did like to lose a witch" he said out loud as he began gathering ammo for the mission inside the bunker he shared with five other marine "Course last time i did this, we had a real leader" In Kita, back in "50" when he'd been a lowley private fighting in the "Frozen"Chosin with Fox Company, 5th Marines, they'd been lead by a Lieutenant Peterson, a vet of the second Neuroi war, who'd seen action in the Pacific, the man was the finest butter bar he'd ever served under, always watched out for his men, made sure they had the best he could get, and he'd payed the price for his "love", when a red hot death beam had cut through his chest, killing him where he stood as he rallied the company during an assault in sub zero weather, they'd fought the enemy off, he liked to think in honor of their fallen leader, and lived to fight on, but now, fourteen years and four ranks on his shoulder latter, he found himself under the opposite of that man.

Steven Beck must have had a general for a father, because he was a grade A fuck up in ever regard. He tended to do the bare minimum half the time, and when he did more, he often took all credit for what had been done, stepping over the noncoms and enlisted men bellow him. Had the leathernecks been less disciplined, he would have been "fragged" as fast as any other REMF in a combat post.

"Whatcha think gonna happen to us sarge, think we can get her back here before the "spooks" get her"? Private Lyle Allen asked, his large lips spread in a grin, as he placed his helmet on his head. Crest turned to him, two grenades, pins wrapped in tape, attached to his web gear "I think we'll do our damn job, and boy, i ain't no dentist, so get them pearly whites out of my sight"! he ordered, the young private gulped, and did as he asked, turning his back to the older man, and loading a magazine into his rifle, the black weightless "Mighty Mattel" M-16.

Crest picked up his own weapon, a stainless steel and wood stocked Winchester trench gun, a weapon that his father had likely carried in the trenches in 1918, and one he wasn't meant to have, being a non issued weapon, but it had a punch the M-16 couldn't try to match. He'd take a chewing out over death any day. Feeding shells six shells into the breach, before pumping one into the chamber and adding another, he placed his own helmet on, wiped the sweat from the stubble on his cheek, and joined the rest of the squad. Lt Beck had a group of seven marines gathered around him, he realized quickly, he was the eight, and final man to arrive.

"Men, it seems a witch has gone down somewhere around here, and our mission is to find her"

It was clear by the Lieutenant's words he wasn't coming, when he said "Our Mission" he meant " _Your Mission_ " Crest had his own thoughts on this, most involved the LT and a string of words taken in the lords name. The small rescue team, consisted on Crest, a single grenadier, armed with an M-79 break action grenade launcher, a weapon that looked like the result of a one night stand between a shotgun and a recoiless rifle, one man with the " _Pig_ " the M60 machine gun chambered in 7.62 NATO, the old M1919's younger, tougher brother, and a gaggle of riflemen, armed with M-16s and a Corpsmen. Crest was senior among them. This was to be a quick operation, just ammo, flak vests and weapons, anything else would just weigh them down, and speed was key.

"Well" he said as the Beck mention this to them "I got one rule, don't screw up, or it'll look bad on my record" he said in a deadpan tone, slapping the front of his flak jacket for emphasis. Not one man laughed, most knew his words held some truth, out there, once they got off the hill, one fuck up could get them all killed. Flicking his hand forwards in a chopping motion, he spoke again "Lets move, we follow that" he pointed to the smoke trail waffing up from the jungle nearby, a dark black stain against the lush wet green hills and azure sky. Moving in single file, they followed, slowly making their way down the slopes to find the lost witch...

...

If Audrey ever got back to Da Nang, the airbase she was based out of, she promised herself to never set foot outside it's fence if she didn't have to ever again, the damn trees and brush were a nightmare's wet dream, thick with vines and bush, perfect for an ambush. Behind her, the remains of her A-1s burned deeper in the jungle, she didn't think the flames could spread with how damp it was, but the smoke was giving away her position for all to see, training said to distance yourself from the crash, and move south towards friendly lines, her compass had somehow survived the crash, and now, alongside her 38. S&W, was her lifeline to safety.

Pushing away the vines to her front as she marched, and leveled her revolver ahead, her hand trembling with ever move. "You can do with Audrey, your a witch after all" she said to herself in a low tone, her voice full of fear, it was one thing to fight the Neuroi from the air, the black specks on the ground blew up just like targets during training, but up close...it wouldn't be the same, or as easy.

Moving down what had to be a trail of some sort, the brush was less thick on the small path, she noticed boot marks in the red dirt. " _YES_ "! The thought shot through her head, boot prints meant soldiers, and soldiers meant rescue! Following the trail, her bare feet making a slightly audible _thuck_ sound as they pulled a bit of dirt up with them each time, the soles a soft red shade now as she traced the prints heading south towards friendly lines. She knew, like it or not, it wouldn't be easy. The jungle was wet, making her footfalls almost silent save for the mud, but this meant anyone chasing her would likely be unheard as well, something she didn't like.

Ahead, she spotted a small clearing, she slowed herself, questioning if she should skit around it, or risk walking through it to save time, a crash from the brush told her that the answer was to hide, and diving behind a rotted log, she heard ripping and tearing. through a hole in the fallen tree's body, she watched a study four legged hexigon with black and red skin lurch forwards, about the size of a dinner table. Behind it, almost a dozen two legged combat forms followed, their bodies were vaguely humaniod, the same basic shape, be it the left arm a cylinder like weapon, and heads with a bowl shape near the top like farmers wore in the rice fields. They were covered in jungle rot, bits of vines and mud from traveling for so long in the dense overgrown jungle, it stuck out against their black skin like light in the darkness.

They formed a rough cordon and stopped, Audrey watched them begin to wipe each others bodies to remove the growth, she guessed they didn't like it either. Her heart raced as she watched the black demons wiping each other down like sweaty football players. She almost laughed at the sight. Instead, she yelped, feeling _something_ crawl across her leg, a spider or snake, she wasn't sure. She was sure she'd just screwed herself over, the crowd of Neuroi turned to face her hiding space, one pointed it's "Arm" at the log and let out a hellish howl, the others took a step forwards, and then all hell broke lose.

From the treeline to the Neuroi's front, a wall of muzzle flashes cut into the green, and a sharp crack sounded, and a flash of a rocket was followed by it slamming into the four legged beast, blowing two of it's legs off. Sitting up, and resting her arms against the log, she joined in the fighting, firing her 38. like a Clint Eastwood in a western, the kick of the pistol was nothing to a witch, but even she could feel the power as she popped shot after shot off with it. As she did this, a thought popped into her head.

Maybe, just maybe, she might make it now.

...

Sgt Crest dropped the still smoking lime green tube of the M-72 LAW, the light anti tank assault weapon was a single shot weapon, and now was nothing more then a fancy paper weight. Crest had the squad set up in a rough line, so every gun was trained on the enemy, the edges curved, the enemy was caught in a 90 degree killing field. The Spooks returned fire, red lasers cutting into the brush and burning leaves off branches, but between the quickness of the ambush, and the concealment of the Marines, their was no need for a Corpsmen, and within seconds, not one neruoi was left standing, only midnight black bodies, with huge chunks blown out of them with the smell of gunpowder in the air.

As the last weapons fire ceased (The M60, with it's unmistakable burning tracers) Crest moved to a standing posture, he removed his shotgun, slung over his back, and leveled it at what was left of the enemy. "Come on, lets make sure they're dead" he waved to three others to follow him. "Eyes open boys, we mighta missed one of em" he added, as they scanned the clearing for signs of "life". Stepping out of the brush, the prodded the dead enemy with their rifles, one wide eyed private happily said "All clear Sarge"

"Keep an eye open" Crest muttered as he raised his shotgun's muzzle skyward, relaxing slightly, letting out a low deep breath, but his rest would last but a moment, as he noticed movement behind a nearby log, raising his shotgun to his should, he watched a pair of hands stick up from behind it, palms open "Don't shoot, friendly"! a female voice shouted.

"All clear" my ass" he sighed, giving the private an angry glance, before turning his gaze back to the log, in a gruff voice, he yelled "Advance and be recognized"! with stern eyes, he watched a young woman, dressed in a green flight suit and shorts minus the boots, with red hair tied back in a somewhat messy bun, her green eyes held a mixture of fear, and hope.

"Guess your the lost witch eh"? he smiled, resting his Winchester upside down on his shoulder with one handed, and holding out the other for the young woman. The rest of his men quickly relaxed as the NCO helped her over the remains of the enemy. "Miss, are you alright'? He asked as she sat down on a rock, taking a swing of water from the canteen he offered her a moment before, taking a long sip, and handing it back to him, she nodded "I'm fine. Fine as you can be after a crash at least, wouldn't mind a pair of boots though" she added, Crest glanced at her feet, and saw them, the bottoms quite bloody from the jungle floor.

"Let me see what i can do bout' that maim, Corpsman up"! he called, the skinny black man in glasses was there by his side in a moment, a red cross bag slung at his side "Sergeant"? he asked, before looking at the witch, he realized the issue at once "Let me see what i can do, miss" he smiled, taking her foot in his hand, and cleaning away the blood with a gauze covered in water, quickly the white turned to red oo the fabric, and he repeated this, now with disinfectent on top "Never know what this damn jungle has lying around" He joked as she winced at the burn on the cuts. Cleaning her up, he removed a pair GI socks from his pack, and handed them to her, Crest spoke up again "Sorry, we didn't bring any boots, but these'll have to do for now"

"it's fine, thank you..." she took a moment to eye the rank on his shoulder "Sergeant..." but found his name on his breast was too dirtied to be legible. The Leatherneck smiled, something he rarely did in the field "It's Crest, Sergeant Joseph Wheeler Crest, Golf Company, 2nd Battalion 3rd Marines maim" Now she realized, it was her turn for an introduction "Lieutenant Audrey Gaines, 112th Air Support Squadron,".

"Hear that boys, we got us an officer among us" he joked "Guess we'll have to salute you, but we'll wait until were outta here since you wanna keep your head on your shoulders" he referred to the snipers habit of picking off officers in the field, killing those shown the proper respect in the field because it marked them as officers. Gaines took a few moments to catch her breath, drinking a bit more water, before speaking again "So, when we getting a chopper in here"? she asked, the Sergeant smiled "Maim, we gotta walk all the way back to base, before that's possible" he held a sort of laughable sadness to his voice.

"So were..." ? She asked uncertainly, dreading the answer. "Yep" the leatherneck replied "On foot"

Yes. God did have it in for her, didn't he?

...

Audrey couldn't feel her feet as they marched in a single file line through the jungle, a few feet spaced out between each Marine, she'd been paired with one, to "watch her ass" as Sgt Crest had put it. The wide eyed private with straw colored hair poking out from under his helmet seemed younger then most of the others, and just a bit friendlier too.

"So you gals get decent food then"? he asked in a hushed voice as they marched through the jungle. She smiled slightly, most people would expect a grunt in the field to be drooling over the mere sight of a woman, but a man's thought often went to food before females she'd found time and time again. "Yes, they feed most pilots decently, witches no exception" He seemed to be pleased with this answer, nodding his head "We don't get much out here, they tend to drop it in from choppers for us, but we manage" he boasted with pride.

"Typical" she mock sighed "Men turning a weakness into a strength", Ahead, the ground began to rise, and the grunts, even the hard chargers sweated as they climbed up the sharp incline, littered with tree stumps and rocks.,craters too abound. She had some trouble with the climb, the young private tossing her a hand, and helping her up, rifle slung on his shoulder, with a smile

"First climb is always the hardest, maim" he added leading her up to the top.

Walking into the hilltop outpost, she saw razor wire set up along the edge of the hilltop, with sandbag bunkers behind them, and trenches, it didn't look like easy living by any means. From above, she heard a soft _pop_ and watched the devil dogs scatter to the scream of "Laos Pop". Before she could react, she felt herself lifted up, as a marine swung her onto his shoulder and ran towards the nearest trench as fast as he could carry the two of them. Jumping into the deeply dug trench, the marine threw his body over her own, seconds latter, a crashing boom shock the ground, denting her hearing for a moment. Dazed, she looked around, the marine stood up, and in what sounded like a whisper to her, yelled to another with a pair of binoculars to his eyes "Did you see it"?. The man nodded, and taking a nearby radio, he called it in, giving a series of numbers...it took her a moment to realize they were coordinates, grid reference on a map. Turning and putting the receiver done on top of the radio, she could see her rescuer had been Sergeant Crest, his scowl turned soft and he knelled down next to her "You alright maim"? he asked.

"Yes...i'm fine Sergeant" standing up, she dusted herself. He spoke again in a angery tone "Damn mortars, they fire em in from Laos just 'cross the border, we can't go after em...on foot" he smiled at the last word as she heard a sound more familiar to her then the infantrymen. Above, she watched the twin contrails of two witches in jet strikers as they filed a salvo of rockets into a hillside that looked to be a mile or two away. "Say what you want 'bout the Air force, but they save our ass more times then i'd care to admit" Crest pointed out as they watched the show of Liberian firepower before them.

"Yes, those Thunderchiefs are fine birds, never get a chance to handle one myself" she didn't add how much of a disappointment it had been to be denied that, she'd wanted to be a Phantom Flyer, and flunked the course, as had she every Jet based striker the Air force seemed to have, but she'd somehow passed the Skyraider exam with flying colors. She'd have given anything to have a set of those F-4s on her legs now, but today she was just happy to be alive. The low puttering of rotors told her a chopper was inbound, Crest flicked a thumb out towards the growing shape.

"That's your bird then, better get on her quick before the Spooks decide to take another shot at us". She turned watching the UH-1 land, a man behind a gun neat the door waving her and a wounded marine, half his face covered by bandages. "Thank you, and good luck Sergeant" she yelled over the rotor wash as she ran hunched over towards the aircraft, the gunner throwing her and the wounded man and pulling them inside and strapping them in as it took to the skies once more.

...

The slick ride back to Da Nang was uneventful, besides taking enemy fire, the marine riding with her only chuckled at the sight of it "Damn spooks are poor shots" and smiled. She looked at him like he was insane. The pilots stayed calm, and the door gunners leveled their guns at the jungle covered hills bellow, even if they could have seen the enemy, she didn't think their M60s had the range to hit them.

"This infantry shit it hell" she said, the devil dog, looking out the open door, replied, face still towards the hills bellow "So is that flying shit"! he added a grin to the end, and even after everything, she laughed.

...

 **Between 1967 and 1968, the United States Marine Corps and the North Vietnamese Army would clash in a series of battles in the hills and vallys around Khe Sann, and the US combat base located there. Khe Sahn sat close to the 17th parallel, and was the US's main base for interdiction missions against the Ho Chi Minh Trail that feed supplies to the VC and NVA troops operating in the south. The outlying hills were used as outposts, to guard against any major attacks, and were often targets of enemy artillery and night attacks. Khe Sanh was one of the war's bloodiest chapters.**

 **274 American servicemen died in it's defense. It is unknown how many Vietnamese forces died trying to take it.**


	2. YGBSM

**Korat Airbase, Thailand 1968**

Lieutenant Sheila Cuffs spooned her plate's content into her open mouth, the blonde haired witch swallowed, the eggs went down her throat, even if a tad bitter, tasting fine. To a "Jet Jockie" it was fuel, fuel for a weapon trained for one purpose. War.

She was a warrior, be it one of a far more unconventional, from behind a set of F-105s, the "Thud" may have been a bit bulky, and ugly, even with a poor kill to shoot down count, but it could carry a ton of ordnance and with a witch armed with a shield at the helm, the 105 was one hell of an aircraft,she jammed enemy surface to air missiles, to clear the way for the big boys to do their jobs. Some might gawk at such a duty, leaving the glory of an airborne duel to the fighters that would come in for mop up duty but Sheila saw it as just another deadly tool in the Liberian air force's large box. "First in, Last out" was their motto, they would fly in before the main force, jam, and then find and destroy SAM and radar sites, it wasn't blowing MIGs out of the sky, but it did make it possible for fighters to do that. It was risky, it was tough, and it was secret, the program was hush hush, so secret they'd based them in Thailand to keep prying eyes away from the pilots and witches.

Standing, her tray empty, Sheila dumped it with the rest stacked at the end of the food line, bumping passed a pair of enlisted nobodies in working uniforms waiting for breakfast. One raised a hand to protest, but his partner stopped him "You don't wanna get into a fight with a weasel" he said with a shutter reciting the nickname of the (Unlisted) 66th Tactical Denial Squadron, or "Wild Weasels, witches who went into the beast's den with bared teeth and foaming lips,who wouldn't take shit from anybody.

Walking out of the mess hall, turning left towards the airfield, she passed mechanics working over aircraft and strikers sitting on the runway, going over their duties even in the baking morning sun. She didn't envy them one bit, taking fire over North Vietnam took guts, keeping those birds running was another work of higher importance, her own pair of strikers sat in their cradle, resting in the shade of a hangar, she ran a hand over them as she walked inside out of the sun, the cool metal skin shaded in a coat of dark green and butternut, standard SEA camouflage the Air Force used in South East Asia, some people might scoff at such an attachment towards a pair of Strikers, just equipment to most, but pilots and witches had a deeper bond with the vessels that kept them flying, like a vowboy and his horse, they cared deeply for them after risking life and limb together for so long.

"You ready to head out Hands"? a female voice asked, Sheila turned around seeing a dark skinned witch in the sane flight coveralls she wore watching at her, lips pursed into a deep smile. Her wing mate, Lieutenant Martha Denvers. "So, just giving the old boy one last look huh"? she asked warmly, she understood the bond. Cuffs nodded "Just inspecting them, pre flight check" she said standing up from her crouch and placing a hand on Denvers's shoulder "Not everyone is as go lucky as you" adding a smirk.

Martha was unfazed "Luck hasn't failed me yet Hands" she laughed using Sheila's nickname again, she hated it, it had been ONE time in Saigon, once, and now...she sighed, shaking it out of her mind for now. Martha spoke again "You alright"? Sheila shook her head "Fine, you ready for our sortie today"? she changed the subject to clear her mind. Her wing mate smiled again, showing her teeth "Yep, where we headed, Hanoi"? The Neuroi had turned the one time capital of Vietnam's northern industry into their own little slice of home, they'done more then one mission "Downtown" escorting B-52s in for bombing raids ,but they had a different mission today

"Remember "Thud Ridge"? her friend asked. She nodded, the ridge line that sat near the banks of the Red river was a hurtle every witch and pilot had to jump over on their way to Hanoi. At first it had been merely a way point, a visual check to make sure you were on course and a key piece of terrain to mask your radar sig, but the Neuroi had brained up fast, and placed AA defenses on it, since then, the brass had kept bomber runs as far away from the place as they could, a fighter was an even risk, but losing a B-52 Buff the _Big Ugly Fat Fellow_ or worse if you had a dirtier mouth, on a raid was bad for PR, no one wanted to lose the big boys.

"What about it"? she returned with her own question. Martha smiled "Well it seems the brass has found their balls, and we have new orders, running cover for a new mission, "Operation Touchdown", we take out their SAMs, and then the big boys come in and do some serious remodeling".

 _Serious Remodeling_.

Sheila liked the sound of that.

...

 **Andersen Air Base,** **Guam**

Major Kurtis Wright sat back in his chair as the colonel went over the operation's guide for "Touchdown" to the three dozen men of the 72nd Strategic Wing, dressed just like him in bile green flight suits. The officer who looked old enough to have served in the last war in Europe, pointed his baton at a map, showing the course they would take over the Pacific, the RV point for their refueling mission, an approach towards _Tam Daos_ ,the ridge that they would strike.

A force of four B-52As would take off from Guam, and fly several hours in a bow maneuver to point themselves towards Thud Ridge from the south. They would use the Guam based BUFFs to keep the Neuroi guessing as to were to defend from. The F-105s would jam the captured SAMs the Neuroi had, as well as draw what lighter fire there might be. The Colonel ended his briefing by slapping the Ridge line hard with his stick. "Gentlemen, lets show those fighter jocks what we can do" with a smile. Everyone stood up as he left, including Wright's co-pilot, Lt Marcus Jobs "You hear that Kurt? We're gonna put the hurt on those sonsabitchs" he said with an air of glee. No one had liked having to change their flight path after Thud Ridge had become such a doorstop for bombing missions, and now, it was payback time.

"Come on, lets get ready" Marcus nodded agreeing to the unspoken reason that he knew without having to be told of, no good pilot would miss a pre-flight check before something like this with the other four men on the crew. It'd be long and hard, no one wanted a screw up on an op like this, not the brass, not the public, and sure as hell not the crew.

...

"This is Icarus-2, requesting permission to take off, over"? Wright said into his mic inside the bulky helmet we wore, an air hose mounted to the front, the B-52 would be at such a high altitude, the pilots would need the "fresh" air for their mission, Kurtis watched the nearby tower, the dozen or so men inside it's glass spire waved their heads to each other. "icarus-2, this is tower, permission granted, give em hell". Wright smiled as he nodded at Jobs, who pushed the engines up, and they massive green camouflaged bomber gained speed as it raced forwards on the runway, before raising it's nose skyward and lifting off. Behind them, another B-52 was already getting ready to taxi onto the tarmac, ready to take off too.

Kurtis had never seen them launched so quickly before, this must have been big on the brass's minds if they wanted it done like this, ASAP. Turning his head towards his instruments, he checked there course heading, it held steady at 215, taking them north of Guam, they'd turn they'd make a U turn, going west in 20 minutes.

"I just hope we don't run into any bandits"

"Clear skies the entire way there "Or", don't worry, we got a fighter escort that'll link up with us, nothing to worry 'bout" his co-pilot said, eyes forwards.

"It's not the fighters i'm worried about, it those damned SAMs they got." Surface to Air Missiles were a pilots biggest foe, you could outrun a Neuroi MIG, but a SAM was smarter, it'd follow you to hell and back, and in a Bomber like this, they were sitting ducks.

"SAMs? Thats why we got the Witches coming in too" Jobs reassured him, smiling, it was no secret among the men of the 72nd's airmen that witches played a role in the SAMs being jammed during their raids, but even with them on mission, a chance always remained for having to bail out, a nightmare come true given what the Neuroi seemed to do to prisoners, or at least from what they'd found left of them.

He hoped none of them would have to find out how they did those...things to men to make the bodies look like that.

 **Over the DMZ**

The skies of Northern Vietnam held dangers to a pilot all the same as those of an infantryman in the jungles, paddies and villages of the South. The same, in the sense that they could kill you, a SAM site and a Puji pit simply did so in different, and in the later's case, more painful means. Even flying with Martha at her side, Sheila didn't feel safe in the enemy's home turf. As they passed the line the divided the nation in two, it a chill went down Sheila's spine.

"We're in the Wolf's den now boys, heads on a swivel now" A F-4 Phantom pilot said over the radio his voice accented with the drawl of the old west, the Wild Weasels F-105s strikers were interlaced eight kilometers infront the formation of the two dozen fighters, a quarter of them, witches like Sheila and Martha. The comment about the wolf's den made Martha laughed, Sheila could see her chuckling from her place three F-4s between the two, Martha's Wolf ears made it easy to tell why for anyone who wondered.

"Well, i guess we're going to have to weasel these wolves out of their den then" she said controlling her laughter, the three other weasels hooted in reply, esprit de corps was high among the small band of witches, a honed elite, and they were proud of it.

Through her flight helmet, Sheila saw the world in a hue, the visor linked to a magic powered HUD. The world seemed more...orderly with the green letters giving her information on her striker's status and weapons as she flew, she had a load of four AGM-65 Mavericks under her, each with the name of a SAM site written on it. The Air-to Ground missiles would be their main armament on this flight, slung across each Witches back, was an M14 model W, a battle rifle chambered in 7.62, in a 40 round magazine, normally, an M-14 was incapable of firing in automatic, but a witch's increased strength made recoil not an issue, her range and penetrating power made the weapon perfect for picking off neuroi that got too close for missiles.

"landmark 3# in sight, over" she heard a voice drone over her radio, pointing out a set of flat hills with a solitary crumbling building made of stone, an old Gallian colonial fortress that had last seen use when Hoover had held the White House, a forgotten artifact of another war for control of Vietnam, gunports now covered in mold, walls decaying like a corpse left in the sun to rot.

She shock the thought from her head as somebody yelled over coms "Aerial contacts incoming! Bearing 127, over." It was Martha, she locked eyes with Sheila, and nodded, both cut back on their engines, and watched half a dozen F-4 equipped witches zoom by them towards battle. Even staying far back, the battle could be seen to be a fierce clash. The radio told the story ears couldn't as the witches meet their foe, a flight of eight Neuroi "Fish Bed" fighters, skinny cigar like bodies with stubby triangular wings and a wickedly cut tail, in a one on one fight, an F-4 had the clear advantage, but today the numbers seemed in the enemy's favor.

Or they would have been, had the out numbered F-4s not been witches.

"Whiskey-1, I have solid tone, over"

"Hold your fire until they get in ranges of our Sparrows, over" a gruffier voiced 'Whisky-6" said, the other witches seemed to follow the order as well, for the Fishbed's bee-line for them went unopposed. They closed in, gaining speed to their attack, all nosed up, a common tactic for a Neuroi attack run, and nosed down seconds latter, like raptors swooping on prey.

But this time, they prey wouldn't go down so easy, the red death beams seemed off, wizing by all but two of the F-4 witches, who raised their shields moments before impact warding off the attack with no damage to any of the six fighters. Fishbed's weren't known for their ranged attacks, rather their close in dog fighting skill. Now it was the turn of the witches to strike.

"This is Whiskey-6, fire at will! FOX-1!" Six AIM-7 Sparrow launched in quick order from under the wings of the witches's F-4s, leaving contrails in their wake as they sucker punched their way towards the Neuroi aircraft, following the white smoky trails over blue sky with ones eyes lead to massive fireballs and horrid screams.

"Good shooting Whiskey Flight, now lets mop up the stragglers." The witches chased after the remaining two Fishbeds, now fleeing for their lives. Like hands at a rodeo, they corned the two remaing Neuroi, and pumped slugs of 7.62 into them with a deep chatter of guns, spent brass falling with a hiss and steam as six streams of bullets met their targets, the Neuroi shock as it was riddled, holes being punched from it's body, wings and tail, like a sick butchering job.

The last Neuroi seemed to realize it's hopelessness, and turned, making a charge towards the nearest witch, firing beam after beam, her shield barely stopping each blow, again and again, again and again, until one blast wore her down, a beam sliced into her striker leg, and sent her tumbling downwards in a circle, smoke billowing from her legs.

"Whiskey-3 is hit, over"

"Whiskey-3, going down"

The last voice, more senior then the rest, "Whiskey-6" spoke again "Copy Whisky-3, we have S&R inbound, pop some smoke yellow when you see the Jolly Greens, Whisky-2, Whisky-4, provide cover till then, rest of you, return to formation, we got a mission to finish." The other two witches reformed with their leader, and took their place now behind the two Wild Weasels, both nodded to each other through their helmets, and thumbed the banks of switches attached to their gloved wrists, turning on their jamming rigs, the small squat box straptt to their hips, the size of a TV dinner tray threw massives amounts of static into the airwaves, and made every SAM in the nearby area, blind as a bat.

Ahead, the sight of Thud Ridge was one to behold, the top cluttered with the black shapes of Neuroi SAMs. Both witches lips curved into smiles. "lets do this" Cuffs said keying up her mic to a new freq, a radio station from the south, playing _Break on Through_. It was ass kicking time.

As they crested the horizon, the lighter enemy AA weapons opened fire,dozens of neuroified guns spitting lines of tracers into the air, they danced through the red sea of enemy fire onwards bobbing and weaving through the angry skyways, but they had larger fish to fry then a couple of AA guns. Both F-105s shock on Cuffs's legs as the speed she was going at increased,the strikers rattled and the bolts felt like they would shake loose as she nosing up for her attack run, her left glove thumbed to her fire switch for the Mavericks. As both witches zoomed high, silhouetted in the sun, the SAMs fired, four SA-2 warheads screamed upwards, but now, jammed, dumber then a bag of hammers they harmlessly passed the two witches, no more off a threat then doves. In return, both nosed down, following the smoke trails to their launch sites dug into the ridge they heard the soft solid tone of the radar telling them they had a clear lock on signature, and both Sheila and Martha thumbed the Mavericks loose, with a hellish scream, four missiles from each 105 charge towards the reloading SAM sites, now open for attack.

500 pounds of explosives burst in each missile's tip as they struck, the corner of each witch's helmet HUD showed the grainy black and white view from the TV camera mounted in the tip of the warhead. Sheila watched the feed as one after the other, the four SAMs she had targeted turned to nothing, the neuroi cores bursting, and the remaining metal frame being nothing more then a burnt out husks of metal. Smoke rose softly into the skyline as the two witches banked away from Thud, as eight once dangerous SAM sites sat as smoldering ruins and the ridge now stood undefended from the air.

Sheila keyed her mic up "This is Bronco-1, SAMs are down, i repeat, SAMs are down, over." She smiled as she spoke, knowing what came next.

"Copy that Bronco-1, we have a flight of four B-52As inbound from the south, callsign Icarus flight, help the F-4s provide cover until they drop, over." She could hear the satisfaction in the man's voice, and smiled wider, they had no airborne contacts anywhere for almost 30 miles, and between that and the two dozen F-4 Phantoms, it was unlikely they'd have any unwanted guests, what the man had just done was given them an excuse to watch the show.

And watch she would.

...

 **Icarus Flight**

Kurtis Wright looked down at the controls one more time through his helmet visor, making sure everything was as it should be across the console of lights and switches, after a moment, he saw the same sight he'd seen for the past six hours whenever he'd looked down. Everything normal, they were making a clean approach towards the ridge, and their fighter cover said the Neuroi seemed to be staying clear of this, maybe they'd realized the battle had been lost the moment the witches took down their defenses. The F-4s had downed several Fish Beds, and the 105s had taken out eight SAMs in the last twenty minutes alone.

Now it was the bombers turn to enter the fight.

"We're coming up on the target now, get ready to drop." he heard Icarus-1, the lead BUFF say over coms, he nodded to his co-pilot, and they informed the bombardier. The low hum of the B-52's stomach motors opening up the bombay for the drop was familiar to everyone on board, the bombardier tapped one of the bombs hanging overhead for luck, and stood ready for the signal to let them loose. Icarus-1 moved over the target, and let loose a stream of high explosive M117R general purpose bombs, each held a charge with enough power to punch through a solid block of concrete, and a single BUFF could carry almost 51 of the bombs.

And they had four B-52s full of them ready to rain down of Thud Ridge.

The stream of bombs from Icarus-1 seemed to fall like dominoes, one after the other, only a few feet between each other, and a flash followed, with several seconds of silence before the sound hit Wright's ears, a loud boom and crack, like a wood board snapping in two, a fireball was created at the impact point, engulfing the ridge in smoke and flames akin to the horrors of a volcano's fury at full eruption. Wright had seen it all before, but still had to admit, even from so far up, it looked pretty intimidating. He shook the thought from his mind, and set the bomber on course, next in line to drop.

"On target...on target" Jobs dead toned keeping an eye on their heading visually. He looked at him, and nodded, Wright nodded back, flipping his coms on and speaking with the bombardier "Drop in ten...nine...eight...seven...six..."

...

Sheila watched the second BUFF drop it's load, the bombs taking chunks out of the ridge line, blasting up smoke and earth the same as the first run had. Behind it, two more Bombers readied themselves for their own turn. Within minutes, Thud Ridge was a ruin of itself, chunks blasted away, like shooting a plate with a 22. and knocking off bits here and there, but this was on a scale as akin to that, as a mountain is to a pebble, the sound, like crashes of thunder brought back memories of the 1812 Overture, with blasting cannons for it's grand ending, from her childhood 4th of July shows.

"Hell of a show huh"? Cuffs heard, taking a moment to note Martha speaking over the radio, before she could reply, other pilots and witches responded "Agreed."

"Amen."

"And the horse your rode on!"

She took a moment to think of her own response, and carefully spoke in agreement "Your right Denvers, it sure is nice to see those bastards get theres." Martha chuckled "And then some, Hands"

She didn't disagree. Watching the bombers turn, heading back to base, she felt am arm wrap around her shoulder, Denver laughed "I see a movie deal out of this you know, like that John Wayne picture they made a few years back on the Army, remember?" Cuffs laughed with her "Yes, and i remember the grunts telling everyone it was shit."

The radio spoke, a voice droning "All Aircraft, RTB, over." Using her coms, she responded "Roger, Bronco-1 and -2 returning to base" and tapped her wing mate on the shoulder "lets go cowgirl, you can brag all you want to the boys back at base." Both witches turned themselves south, and headed for home. Behind them, smoke loomed and a rare victory in a long war, had been won.

...

 **During the "Air War" in Vietnam, the United States Air Force quickly found that missions deep inside Northern Vietnam, had a high rate of losses due to enemy anti air weapons, the deadliest, the SA-2 Surface to Air missile system. In 1965, the Airforce deployed specially tailored craft for SEAD (** **Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses** **) duty. The crews were all** **volunteer due to the unit's secret nature, and high rates of downed aircraft.**

 **I** **nitially, the Wild Weasels took severe losses, and were somewhat ineffective, they honed their tactics and aircraft, using radar seeking missiles and staying low to the ground and using radar jamming systems, they quickly grew to be one of the Air Force's greatest assets. The concept and aircraft first used in Vietnam, would find themselves in combat up until the end of the first Gulf War, when most of the F-4s and F-105s would be retired for good.**

 **The motto of the Wild Weasels (Who, did not have a squadron name due to secrecy, i gave them one simple to save time in my story) was YGBSM, an acronym for what an airmen would say upon hearing the goals of their missions to outgun SAM sites.**

 **" _You Gotta be Shitting Me_ "**


	3. Waltzing Matilda through dirty waters

**Cần Thơ Army Airfield, Mekong Delta, 1969**

The paved airstrip was covered on both sides by block after block of metal roofed and walled buildings, wooden barracks and aircraft hangars, all dropped into a cleared area next to a river, with jungle all around it. To Lieutenant Ethan Kelly, it reminded him of his own hometown as a boy, back in Alice Springs in Australis , a large town with grass and trees, thrown in among a landscape of rolling desert hills, and rusty dirt, he guessed it wasn't that odd to see something so similar, even so far from home.

He was part of the 1st Battalion of the 1st Royal Australius Army Regiment, the 1st of the 1st since he'd enlisted at the age of 18 as a boy in 1957, it had seemed the right choice, he'd grown up in the heat of the 2nd Neuroi War, a time when the Commonwealth's soldiers had been their heroes, names like Gallipoli and Tobruk rang from mouth to ear telling of bravery in battles taking place in far off lands. He'd wanted to do his country proud, same as they had, and now, after so many years, he was here in Vietnam, but he had been introduced to the tactics so widely used in the humid jungles, in another steamy tropic land. Malaya (Although they called the country _Malaysia_ now), during the "Emergency" almost 20 years early, the Neuroi stalking the jungles like big cats, wreaking havoc in one of Britannia's last hold overs of her Imperialistic past.

The 1st Battalion had been deployed into a combat zone for the first time since the 40s, to push back the Neuroi, and latter when a neighboring state had started launching raids across the border, the Commonwealth troops had helped hit them back, ambushing them as they crossed the border, or well they were on their own side of it, not that he could speak freely about the latter operations, black as the night.

He'd walked his share of long jungle patrols through the bush, ridden in the new airborne novelty of the helicopters over the treetops, and had earned himself a promotion, first to corporal, and then sergeant by 1960, before going to the Royal military college in Duntroon near the western coast, for officer's training in 1964. He'd passed with colors that'd even surprised him, seems he'd never thought leading his gang of friends as a child on romping camping trips would translate over to a knack for command.

And now he was here, in the wet southern region of Vietnam, the delta. His platoon had been attached to the Liberian and Vietnamese 9th Infantry Divisions, they'd lost a platoon in an ambush several weeks early, and needed replacements quickly, they had barely gotten settled from the long ship ride on the docks when an officer came over and asked Kelly what platoon he commanded, when he'd answered, the man had nodded, and told them to hope aboard a convoy of canvas backed trucks, and away they'd gone. He'd been told on the long drive that, during their voyage, the platoon had been folded quickly into the 9th Infantry (Liberian).

And so for the past month, they had been doing as the yanks did and he'd done before them, walking through the humid damp overgrowth well looking for signs of the enemy. What the men of the 9th Infantry (Vietnamese) called " _Đuổi chim_ ", Chasing Birds. It was the same as he'd done in Malaya, and it was different, the same way two pairs of the same brand shoe might fit the same and look the same, but they didn't _feel_ the same by any means.

The biggest difference was how they got around, in Malaya, it had been in choppers, or in boots, here, they boarded a barge run by some of the Liberian Navy chaps, and were floated down the river to their objectives, hell, some of the more bogan men, the younger troopers who'd joined the regiment only in the last two or so years, found it funny an airfield has docks and sailors posted on it, he thought it was a good tactical choice, using what the land gave you, make the boomers out in the bush living in huts wearing a cloth over their privates would have been proud of.

Walking up to the twin barracks that housed the platoon, a few men milling about in front of them as he walked up boots kicking up small storms in the dry dirt, they straightened up, in his presence, but none saluted, all the men in the platoon had enough sense and training to let snipers do their own work, no reason to be foolish and point out an officer for them. His boots soft footfalls turned to loud clatters as he stepped up the wooden stairs and entered one of the buildings, relief from the hot sun washed over him at once, but he had more present things to do then bask in the shade, walking to the bed closets to the door, he found an aged man, faced scared by the sun to a dark shade with pale eyes and sandy hair sitting on his bed, one leg up as he polished a single boot with an old rag.

"Sergeant Nolan" he said with a kurt nod the man returned, not looking up from his shoe. Nolan from what he;d heard, was an old soldier, who'd earned his stripes in the 2nd Neuroi War, went on to fight in Korea and Malaya adding flare to his three stripes as a platoon sergeant. He had been with Kelly's platoon since they'd trained at the Shoalwater bay back home three months before, Noland had quickly made a name for himself by being a no nonsense NCO who wouldn't take mistakes lightly, from anyone, if it could be done right, he wanted it done right.

Still, the man had spades,and the mind of a stallion to get a job done, he had Kelly's respect too, and right now he needed the man. "Sergeant, word came down that were heading out on a patrol-en force, entire platoon in the field." The man looked up at the mention of a patrol of this size, not something normally done and nodded "So you want me to help prep the lads for a walk in the bush?" he asked slowly. Kelly nodded "Right on the head sergeant."

"I'll see what i can do sir" he gave Kelly a salute, and the lieutenant returned it, about facing and walking out of the barracks. He had a lot to do to prep for a platoon action of this size, and he was just getting started...

 **On the Bassac River**

First Class Petty Officer Rebecca Porter, looked over her Strikers one last time, the twin PBR tubs bobbed in the water teathered to the dock, dressed in green army fatigues, see didn't look much like a normal sailor, but she wasn't a normal sailor. She was a witch stationed in the MRFs, the mobile riverine force, or the brown water navy, the US navy's answer to the hundreds of rivers and streams that cut through the delta, small fast boats, or in her case witches, armed to the teeth with weapons sent out to police and patrol the waterways. It was hot work, dirty work, and generally unpleasant work, and she loved every minute of it. No one would expect less from a Salem Massachusetts cod fisherman's daughter. She'd grown up sailing, she'd just move on from rowing her father's old dingy up streams, to steering a fiberglass gunboat up rivers.

Her Strikers bore the number 182# in white paint, always chipping, and in weathered blue letters underneath, a quote "Free trade and sailors' rights" a nod to the most famous Porter to serve in Liberion's navy. Looking over the vessels one more time, she ran a hand through the short brown hair on the back of her head, already dripping with sweat in the Asian summer heat. The weather in the delta was nothing like home, sure it could get hot, the warm air coming up from the southern Atlantic from the Gulf of Mexico, but the southern most tip of Vietnam seemed dead set to be an oven baking in the hot sun no matter the time of year, the tropics charm she supposed.

At 16, and with only four more months till her ID read 17, "Becca" figured she still had a good gig going, sailing a craft of her liking, in a field of her liking, just like her old man had on a PT boat in the Solomon islands back during the big one, she;d grown up on those tales,and when she'd chosen to enlist, she'd made it a point to not only go for the wet service, but to make sure she'd get a job as close to his as she could, hell she was the only witch who'd volunteered for PBR service, she guessed they weren't as glamorous to most, but they had spunk.

And by spunk, she meant firepower. Nearby, was her weapons load out, a single 50, Caliber M2 Machinegun, in a "Chainsaw" rig so it could be held properly, with thigh buckets for the belts of rounds to be fed from, along with an M-79 " _Bopper_ " grenade launcher, single shot break action, single barreled. No finer more accurate weapon had she yet found could surpass it in those terms thus far. She carried a mixture of HE rounds, and "Willy Pete" white phosphorus rounds, nasty incendiary devils that would burn up dry brush in an instant. Useful for clearing away brush on the riverside or burning out pesky dug in enemy troops.

Checking her watch, she noticed her patrol would start pretty soon, with a smile, she threw on her flak jacket, it's steel plates hardly noticed by a witch, and a helmet colored bulkhead blue. She unlaced her boots and slipped her legs into her strikers, feeling the rush as she settled into them and picked up her weapons. Sticking a finger in her mouth, she removed it covered in spit, and checked the wind, a habit that had never left her from her early boating days, and nodded to herself.

She was ready to sail.

 **Cần Thơ Army Airfield, briefing room**

"Lieutenant" the Liberian Major said, as he spotted Kelly at the head of the group of the platoon's less than half dozen NCOs. He saluted the Liberian, who return it crisply, gesturing for the group of soldiers to sit. Settling into folding chairs in the cool room, the low hum of an air conditioner ever present as the lights dimmed and the first slide of the briefing flashed across the screen set before them.

"Gentlemen, in the past two months, the Neuroi presence in the delta has seemed to harden, more attacks against us in the villages, and along route 1." he mentioned Route 1A, the MSR or main supply route to Saigon from the delta, reaching the southern tip of the country near the gulf of Thailand, it was the lifeline of military operations south of the Vietnamese capital. If you manged to "bog" it down with attacks, it would cripple any forces working in the Mekong Delta and mean US forces would have to be diverted from other areas effecting combat operations across the country, and the Neuroi seemed to know that all too well.

"Your Platoon will patrol in force on a S&D mission, trying to locate enemy catches and strongholds, you'll move from here" he ran a pointed across six kilometers of ground on the rivers banks, across a road and towards an inland village named Bờ biển "...and then move back towards the river for pickup, any questions?" the major asked as the lights returned.

Kelly put a finger to his shaved chin, the only questions he had, were for his Noncoms on how this was going to work, a large patrol was an oxymoron, a large group could not properly move through the brush and remain undetected, that meant splitting the men up into sections apart from each other, a headach for command. This would take some doing if he didn't want a disaster to take place.

"Leaving he threw out orders to ready the men for a patrol, that meant weapons cleaning. and stocking up rations for the field, going over support for the mission and so on. Noland added gruffly "You heard the man, get to it" in his booming Tasmanian accented voice, a key to his success for sure. Kelly returned to his small office, a officer's perk he supposed, and as he did before every patrol, wrote his mother in case he "didn't come back" as some of the men called it, he'd thrown out three of these letters so far, and hoped he would do the same with this one. He put all the love he could into it, the same as the letter his own father had written to his parents when he'd fought in the deserts of North Africa so many years before.

Still he'd rather he didn't need it.

...

The sight on the docks was that of almost four dozen men dressed in the same uniform as the Britaninan Army , the khaki "Jungle Greens" and "giggle hats" that the yanks called Boonie caps, Liberian style web gear and enough ammunition on each man to fend off a small army, Kelly wanted no chances taken when it came to the entire platoon's safety, SLR's larger round meant ammo was heavy, but did more damage then an M16, but they had no qualms with Liberian weapons, the M60s carried by some to support the squad, were proof of that., not to mention they fired the same ammo, 7.62 NATO so loose rounds from belts could be used as reloads for the SLRs if need be, an added bonus.

The platoon was formed up alongside the river, a single LCM-8 "Mike Boat" was moored nearby, it would take them up the river to their disembarking point, Kelly would have rather split them up, into two or three craft, in case of ambush, but he'd instead have to work with the single Mike he had been given, it would have to do. The two 50. Caliber machine guns mounted on board behind stacks of sandbags did give him some comfort, a blue sailor in army greens behind each, the boat's captain, a Boatswain's mate with slick black hair and a beard to match, told him they'd be fine.

"My crews tough, and _Popeye_ here is tougher, we'll take you right in" he said patting the stenciled image of the famous sailor on the side of the craft. If anything, Kelly did like his confidence. Checking his watch, he waved Nolan over, the man was sporting a slouch hat with one corner pulled up in old ANZAC style, and his face was dripping with sweat, not that he seemed to notice. "Alright, when we hit the beach, i'll take the first squad up the left, you take the second squad right. If they hit us, they won't get both of us at once." Nolan nodded, "Yes sir" and turned to let the NCO in charge of the second squad in on the plan, he did likewise with the head of first squad as they boarded the boat, squads in numerical order. A Coxswains mate watched the last man pile on board, and shouted for the ramp to be raised, with a slow motorous yawn, it did, and the boat began to back up, out towards the open water of the river.

The ride was anything but quiet, between the hum of the engines, men chatted idlle amongst one another, it releasing tension with humor "Fucking Dill" and "Fucking Pollys" being most often heard amongst the mumbles. He had to agree, the "Pollys" in charge back home did seem to be running things a bit backwards, they hadn't trained for duty in the delta, upon arriving they'd had no idea what to spot out of the norm or how to manuver through the various streams and marshes in their path, it'd been a cluster to learn on the job with that one.

but they had, overcome and adapted themselves for their mission, and gone about it like those before them, like good soldiers, and they would do so again. He hoped...

...

The soft _thud_ of the boat hitting the shore would have been welcome had not it meant a new danger for the platoon as they disembarked. Kelly heard the NCO in command of the first squad shout for his men to "haul ass!" as they ran off the ramp, he stock close to the rear, letting the man who had lead them do so again, despite his higher rank, he knew it was better to let the man they'd taken orders from since training give them, it felt more familiar and was thus more effective then mucking it up with rank. They sprinted towards a nearby patch of trees on a raised bar of dirt, the dozen men dropped to their stomach behind it, rifles ready to cover the second squad as it copied their move opposite them, taking cover near a patch of bushes.

Behind them the LCM-8 backed up quickly, both MGs watching the shore as it departed for safer waters. Kelly watched it go, and had to admit, they'd been of help getting them so close to the beach. Both squads waited as the landing craft sailed out of view, before rising up. "Seems they don't know were here sir" an NCO added as the second squad took point, the plan called them them to wait several minutes before following them inland. Those several minutes were hell on Kelly, it wasn't easy to just _wait_ well his men were in someone else's hands, but he knew it was all he could do, it was the way they'd planed it.

Flicking a bug from his arm, he checked his army issued watch "Time to move" he said, the men were waved up, and move inward towards the jungle, in a spaced single file. Stakes of bamboo and brush walled them all around, the only sign of disturbance was the path pushed aside by the men before them, like lost children out of a fairy tale, they followed the trail. Kelly kept a sharp grasp on his SLR as he trudged through the marsh like ground, a soft _Muck muck_ sound being made every time his boots made foot falls. They added together with the rest of the squad's to make a noisy mess of sound that traveled some distance around them.

One that anyone could hear, even the enemy.

That was something Kelly didn't like.

...

Platoon Sergeant Huge Nolan had treked through his share of jungles, he'd been in New Guinea and Burma twenty twenty fives years earlier, and he had seen Malaya and Indonesia too, both just as bloody as anything he had seen during the "Big One" as the Liberians called the war. To him, it would always be just that "The War" ask anyone of his age, and they knew what you meant, same as his father, "The War" would always mean the muddy hell between 1914-1918 he had been in to his generation. But now he had more important things to keep in mind as they marched forwards into the unknown.

He took the the third spot in the file, behind the point man and the man carrying the M-60. Behind him, the NCO in charge and his RTO stomped through the muddy ground. No one wanted a unit's brain and ears to be killed in an ambush, hence the "less needed" men in front, it was a sad reality of war and one you never got use to.

Ahead of them, through the light green, the land opened up, into a clearing, the point man raised an arm up, bent in the shape of an L signaling the squad to stop. The men did so, and rested into a squat. The NCO moved up to Nolan, the man was younger then him, with sandy colored hair with his uniform reading _Beck_. "What do you make of it sir"? he asked in a hushed voice, nodding to the clearing, far too open to be naturally occurring part of the land. Nolan didn't answer, instead he tapped the pair of binoculars on the man's chest, he handed them to him, and peering through them Nolan spotted the shapes of thin trees lying in the grass, trunks burnt.

"It was an LZ, Yanks blast em if they need to make one fast." he said handing the binoculars to Beck. Waving the men back up, Beck ordered the to move around it, no reason to take the risk of an ambush, they skirted around it, sticking to the denser treeline next to it. Moving past, Nolan could still see the shimmer of brass in the grass, he hoped it wasn't an omen of things to come.

Ahead, Nolan spotted their first way point, a dirt road raised up four a few feet over the ground around it, grouping up, they moved men across under cover in twos and threes. Nolan mad it a point to be one of the last to go, he grasped his rifle, his boots slapping down on the dry soil of the raised road, he rushed back to the safety of the trees on the other side.

They were less then three kilometers from the village now, half way there. The patrol was silent as it moved on through the jungle, noise discipline meant the only sounds they made, were the swish of branches being moved, the light stomp of boots, and a deep breath now and then, they had done it all before, but it never did get easier, you just got tougher in country, or you didn't.

Didn't wasn't a word in the 1st of the 1st's vocabulary.

The jungle thinned ahead of them, the trees that walled them in seemed to get less dense. opening up to water covered rice paddies, crisscrossed in a grid with dikes, a few farmers working them over, and father, a dozen small thatched roofed houses, walled with bamboo. The small riverside hamlet named Bờ biển. She looked like plenty of sleepy country towns he'd seen, even if furnished a bit differently, looked about as dangerous as a cattle dog with no teeth.

But he never trusted judgement on looks alone. "You two,Oliver, Mason, set up the Sixty on that berm, Peters, Gibson and Arch, you go over there, and keep your rifles ready"! Beck order, pointing the men to cover behind the dike. "The rest of you, move in pairs towards the village, keep on the dikes, Shadows love to drop mines or punji spikes in em."

Punji spikes were a infantryman's worst fear, a bamboo spike dug into pits or waterways, they often covered them in toxins, meaning an infection killed the man long before the wound did, hell specially made for the infantryman. In a single straight line, the Aussies moved towards the village, under the watchful eyes of the men left behind. The haze seemed to shimmer as they moved across the raised dirt, Nolan stopped himself, his boot snagged on a root, and pulled it, losing his balance and falling back, as he fell. he heard a loud sharp _hiss_ followed by a red beam passing through the space he once occupied.

It was followed by more hot hisses, two men were cut down at once, the rest fell to their stomachs and rolled into the paddies or jumped to safety of the dike. The covering force opened fire, the M60 roaring with it's deep punch of a retort, along with the hard coughs of SLRs. Farmers scattered like leaves in the wind, and troopers leaned against the dirt mounds rifles shoulder returning fire, Nolan leaned forwards, dirt cutting into his bare arms, and fired too, taking sight of now almost a dozen Neuroi "round head" infantry types attacking them from within the village, weaving in and out of the houses to avoid their fire.

He watched them shrug off lighter hits, and flee to safety behind the cover to heal, anything but a killing shot was worthless in this fight, From behind, he heard more gunfire, Lt Kelly no doubt had pushed his section forwards at the first sound of gunfire, he may have been young compared to Nolan, but he respected him, he had stones.

He heard a trooper cry out, as a beam slashed his shoulder and knocked him down, he thought grimly they would all need stones if they wanted to live through this fight he thought grimly. He watched Kelly jump next to him, and nod firing a few shots from his SLR "Morning sergeant, looks like one hell of a pickle were in isn't it"?

"That is one hell of an understatement sir" he replied changing his rifle's magazine to load a fresh one. Behind Kelly, an RTO dug himself in, making a desperate plea for assistance. "This is Wombat-1, under intense enemy fire requesting assistance, over"

 **Three Miles east, on the Bassac river**

For a land so far from home, the inland waters of Vietnam, reminded Rebecca of her younger days, her tiny outboard motor pushing her across the south channel, from Willow park and Cat's cove, to the dozens of small inlet rivers and streams the New England coast was famous for. Vietnam''s rivers seemed to branch off at every angle they could, as if the land had been placed around them rather then carved through by water. It gave her some relief to be in somewhere so familiar

Ahead, Becca heard the snap of small arms in the distance, rifles and automatic weapons fire, a bit of smoke in a tiny whisps flowed above the trees and she heard the cry over her radio of the men in combat for help, voices dipped in a thick accent like peanut butter that marked them as Aussie troops, she'd met a few of em, witches and men uniform that she considered quite odd. Pulling her helmet down, she picked up the receiver to the radio mounted in her Strikers and spoke "This is WPBR 182# am now en route to your location, over."

The man on the other end sighed in relief "Thank god, this is Wombat-1, were an Infantry platoon near the village of Bờ biển, under heavy fire from Neuroi forces, we could use any help you can give maim." Becca smiled, placing the radio phone back in its mount, and hefting her M2 Browning up, loaded a belt into the ammo tray and kicked her her strikers forwards, the motors in both kicking the water behind them in their wake, the dirty water being foamed over as she passed by at top speed, the trees on the shore seeming to zoom by as the roar of the twin Detroit diesel engines hummed in both her human, and her otter ears. Yes god had been kind in giving her an animal familiar that matched her love of the sea shallows she supposed supressing a grin.

Following the rising smoke, he leaned, both strikers turning and propelling her into a river inlet, half the width of the Bassac's main body, it reminded her of the marshes and creeks back home, waterways veining off into land. Ahead the sound of rifle fire increased, alongside now audible yelling. Hefting up the M2, Becca's face went neutral as she entered the brawl...

...

Lt Kelly waved a gaggle of infantrymen forwards as he fired his Browning Hi-Power, his SLR having been loss to a close call with a Neuroi laser. The small 9mm bullets might have done little to hurt the "Spooks" but it made him feel a lot safer. Nearby, a soldier in a floppy hat went down on a knee, and fired an M-72 LAW, the weapon sparked from it's rear and spurted smoke as the man yelled and tosses the tube aside, once again it was shown far to often the weather of Asia played hell with their gear.

The platoon had barely moved forwards, only now at the edge of the rice paddies closest to the village. It had cost them four men. Four men he had been in charge of. Men with names and faces he would never forget. he took that burning inside, and sent it away, right now he had other men, _living_ men to worry about. On each side of him, men with rifles laid down a hail of returning fire at the Neuroi. One or two screamed in pain and fell to the ground, dissolving to a pile of a bits and ash, others kept moving and firing. Beams laced the air over his head, the sizzle of the red rays made his spine shiver as he moved away from his firing spot, trying to find a new one.

From the river to the north east, he heard a mighty thundering chatter, the distinct sound a machine gun made when fired. A stream of tracers, dulled in the day light but still easily visible in the sun, like a beam of colored light they cut into the houses in the village, tossing the bamboo walls aside and knocking them to pieces as she cut a way through the water with her loud motor's cry.

The Neuroi seemed to turn their fire towards her, beams splicing the the water around her as she raised a rune covered shield against the attack. The men of the 1st of the 1st took this change of focus to their advantage, forming up and pushing forwards, the Neuroi now widdled down in strength by enemies on both sides. Loading a fresh clip into his pistol Kelly lead the charge, beside him Nolan, rifle tipped with a bayonet kept pace. The three dozen soldiers still up charged the first two Neuroi they found still firing at them out in the open, dozens of rifles firing bringing them down in seconds, the other Neuroi now dug in near the banks of the river, spinning into the ground and turning themselves into miniature pillboxes of sorts, spitting out lasers faster then a dingo bogging into a fly ridden carcass.

The men threw themselves down, the air overhead becoming hot with enemy fire where they had just stood, next to Kelly, his RTO stomach crawled up, handing him the radio phone that he quickly put to his face "Ma'am! We're pinned down here, those blokes are dug in deep, got anything that'll knock em out"? he heard the roar of motors in the radio receiver before she replied in a tone that seemed like it could have warmed ice "Sure i do mate! My old friend Wily Pete of course"!

He ignored the jab at his accent, nodding to himself as he shouted for everyone to find something hard to hide behind...

...

Becca heard the soft _thunk_ of the M-79's break action as she flipped it open to load a round in. Flipping it up, now with a WP round inserted, she took aim down the rectangular sight at the gun's bore and waited for it to match up to the dark triangular shape of a Neuroi. She wrapped a finger around the trigger and fired the weapon, with a sharp _bop_ the 40mm WP grenade spun towards the shore, after almost three dozens spins the tip armed itself, a safety feature to idiot proof it, and with a _whoosh_ of flame it strike the embedded Neuroi closest to the beach. A sea of white flashed for a moment as flames engulfed it and it's friends. They seemed to jumped up like rabbits with a hellish cry as the fire washed over them in agony.

They were given no pity from the 1st of the 1st however, the rifles and machine guns of the infantrymen tore them down in seconds, ending the enemy presence in the small hamlet, soldiers checked the few still standing houses, devoid of any life, villagers having fled into the jungle during the up to the shore, the brown haired Liberian witch holstered her grenade launcher and tipped her helmet to the Aussies with a smile followed quickly by a salute aimed at Kelly.

He returned it with a nod "You really saved our asses Petty Officer, thanks for the support miss..."?

Her lips curled into a wider smile "Rebecca Porter, Becca for short" Behind her, an LST sailed towards the shore, her stern bore the white lettered name _Garrett County_. Kelly tipped his head to the ship "Suppose that would be our ride maim"

"Suppose it is then Lieutenant " she replied smirking "I'll be on my way then, the Garrnet here should have more then enough firepower on board to make your cruise back up the river a safe one." The man held out his arm "I'd hope so, thanks again Petty Officer." He added shaking her hand briskly before she turned and slowly churning water moved on. Becca couldn't help but think that Aussies weren't so weird after all...

...

A dry snicker told Kelly someone was next to him, he turned his neck ninety degrees to find Nolan chuckling, a rare sight "Reminds me of a witch i knew in Burma, all laughs out of it, but once things got serious, she matched the mood steady as a great white." Kelly smiled "I've seen the same Sergeant, witches are odd ones, specially yanks."

Behind them, the _Garrett County_ had lowered her massive frontal ramp, and men were loading the wounded and the few dead on draped in rain ponchos, the later made Nolan's eyes good dark "Hell of a lose, when i started doing this, we lost men like this for places, with names and reasons. Not for _objectives_ " he sighed making fists. Kelly didn't know how to responds, this was the only kind of war he'd ever known, but he understood the man's anger, with a hand on his shoulder, he spook, in the softer tone he was known for "Come on sarge lets get the wounded aboard, and..." he couldn't finish the second part, but the older man understood.

"Your right" with a nod as both walked onto the ship back to base...

...

 **Between 1962 to 1972, the Government of Australia deployed forces to South East Asia to help stem the spread of Communism, they feared if the Domino Theroy proved true, they'd have red states on their doorstep. In 1962, they sent v** **eterans of the Malayan Emergency who had experience in jungle warfare to advise anti communist forces. Like their American counterparts, these small deployments quickly grew to combat deployments of ground forces.**

 **Australian troops would serve alongside US forces in central Vietnam, operating helicopters and tanks alongside infantry regiments deployed against the Viet Cong. They tangled with NVA forces in Long Tan in 1966 killing 245 North Vietnamese Soldiers, and took lead on Operation Bribie in 1967 to dislodge VC and NVA troops from the Hamlet of Lang Phuoc Ha.**

 **On december 2nd 1972, the last Australian combat soldiers left Vietnam once more alongside US forces. Between 1962 and 1972, 521 servicemen died in South East Asia. Today a stone monument to the war stands, with six empty seats for POWs and a photo carved into the stone of those young soldiers in their prime, an ever present reminder of those who gave everything for Australia, like their fathers before them.**

 **...**

 **At the start of the Vietnam War, it became apparent that the US Navy would require forces to Police the inland waterways of the Delta. For the first time since the Civil War, the US Navy split in two. Using boats design by the Coast Guard and civilian market, these forces served to stop smuggling of weapons into the south, and provide support for ground forces in the area, between their founding in 1965 and 1972, North Vietnam lost much of its water borne smuggling to the men of the Brown Water Navy.**

 **Note:**

 **The command of the PBRs and Swift Boats, was given to Rear Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, among the sailors he commanded, was his own son. After the way in the early 80s, Elmo II was found to have cancer, and after a long battle with it, would die. His father felt sorrow like no other, because it was his actions that had given his soon the sickness in the first place, under his orders, Agent Orange, a** **defoliant used to kill plants, it made ambushes more difficult by clearing the waters edge of cover. Zumwalt was crushed and considered himself his son's killer for the rest of his life.**


	4. Men who mean, just what they say

**1969, Eastern** **Cambodian border**

Robert Howard was one with the jungle. Covered in large flat palm leaves over his prone tiger striped uniform body, his John Wayne like face slathered in green and brown paint, only his eyes bare of camouflage, he looked like a scowling bush. But he was far worst then a mere angry shrub, he was a warrior trained to live off the land, in combat hand to hand. He was a Green Beret, the rough and tumble men bred by the instructors at Fort Brag for combat half a world away in places the enemy world least expect to find him.

Which was why now the square jawed NCO and the rest of his small SOG team were hidden along a stretch of one of the Neuroi's many cross border supply routes. Sometimes they would insert over the border for recon, sometimes for ambush duty. Today, the latter. Dak Nong across the border had seen a sharp increase in Neuroi attacks, they were coming over the border, hitting them and then fleeing back to safety, protected by the walls of polices made in Washington. They could hit Liberian and Vietnamese forces unscaved.

Now they would hit them back. They'd been stalking the same patch of worn grass for some time now, marked with the tracks of neuroi, the round footfalls tell tale of the enemy's movements, he was brought back to hunting back as a boy in the Opelika Alabama backwoods, the waiting game was one he'd known since the age of 12 when he'd first held a rifle. The little tricks his father had taught him, slow breathing and a finger hovering over the trigger of his CAR-15 carbine, all the time motionless, as if he was part of the jungle itself.

A light rain pattered off the brim of his floppy hat, he used the sound to keep himself focused on the trail, to make sure his mind didn't wander in the aimless hours between which nothing happened, but Green Berets were honed to ignore boredom in the field, everything was data to a Special Forces soldier's eyes, his brain the computer that took it all in. Howard felt his lips curl into a smile at that thought, computers were big and bulky, not the sort of thing you'd want to compare a nimble jungle fighter to where they?

Ahead on the trail, he could hear movement, not the soft steps a an animal, but hard, stomps, no animal here made such sounds. It could only be Neuroi. Howard slowly moved a hand to his CAR-15 again, slowly sliding a round into the under barrel grenade launcher, a new toy fresh from China Lake, the weapons development base in southern California. Closing the breach with the round in, slow as to keep it from making the fatal snap he'd found it made when closed. He readied the weapon as the first "mule" form crashed through the nearby brush.

The Mule was a four legged pack Neuroi, meant for moving supplies. They varried in size, this one, about the same as a horse, but shorter by some. Beside it, more Neuroi "Charlie" combat forms marched, trudging through the jungle, more came into view, it quickly seemed clear they'd run across a supply convoy of some sort, carry fresh Neuroi gear into Vietnam and raw materials for constructing more Neuroi combat forms. Ever ounce they packed in country was one more ounce used against American and Vietnamese troops.

And it stopped here.

He turned his eye towards a rotting log, and snaking a hand to his side, clicked the small cricket, a children's noisemaker also quite good as a covert signal, twice. One click meant let them pass, two meant attack. Set up at five meter intervals across the trail, were Claymore mines. As the line of Neuroi passed by, another soldier triggered them, at once half a dozen explosions sent hot metal balls flying towards the Neruoi, the "pointmen" were dead before they hit the floor, as was the mule closet to the front. Before the others could react, Howard had fired an M203 round between two more, killing one and blowing the other in half.

Beside him, other Berets rose, one of them firing an M1903, despite it's bolt action, quite fast, and drilling another Neuroi with a sharp series of 1918 era cracks. With a head of boyish blond hair, sergeant Larry Throne made up for his weapon's shortcomings with his own skills, honed in Suomus during the Winter war almost twenty years before. Other berets fired too all around them, the cacophony of rifle and machine gun fire silenced everything else, animals fleeing and Neuroi dying, their wounds leaving a white dust in the air.

Turning like a corkscrew ninety degrees, Howard thumbed a "203" at a group of Neuroi coming up the trail to help their comrades, the soft _pop_ almost laughable if not for the blossom of fire it produced that shot down any laugh he may have had, combat was a mixture of dark humor and stark seriousness he found far too often. All the berets were like the patches they wore on their shoulder patches, showing a dagger on a blue background in the shape of an arrow head, bolts of lightning slashing across it.

They were the lightning striking hard, fast and direct. A killing blow to stop the enemy's hearts. Pushing up onto the trail, Thorne at his side, he scanned the 180 degree arc to his front, on a knee with his CAR-15 at the ready, but all he could see was bushes moving as the last few enemies fled from the ambush, likely realizes how out gunned they were.

He didn't know if they were cowards or geniuses. He settled on neither as he stood up, deciding it didn't matter if it meant he didn't need to worry about them. Still he called out for two men to cover the trail on each side, well he waved up his RTO, the radio man's face was a mess of green, the paint tending to run in the humid weather, but it didn't effect his timing, in a moment, he'd taken the receiver off his pack, and handed it to Howard. He heard the steady crackle in his ear and spoke.

"North Fork, this is McCain,do you read over"? He used the callsigns they'd come up with, the name of the main character of _The Rifleman_ , they'd taken the name of Chuck Connor's heroic cowboy, their base over the border bore the name of town he fought to protect. He waited a moment, before a calm but steady voice replied

"Roger, we read you McCain, whats your sitrep, over."

Of course they knew he'd called in to report, radio silence on all other matters was standard operations rules, and they'd only spotted this one supply convoy over the past two days, meaning it wasn't likely another was going to any more traffic they could run into. Stil better safe then sorry "Standby for sitrep over" he quickly waved the two sentries into the bush, to see if they could make sure those surviving neuroi might not live much longer.

With the sound of gunfire in the background puncuating his words he went over the ambush "...Six november echos dusted. First patrol we've seen in days, over." The soft hiss of static was broken as North Fork replied "Copy that, gather what intelligence you can, and hump it to LZ Mark for dust off and RTB, how copy"?

"Solid Copy North Fork, will be at LZ Mark in twenty five mikes, over and out." He handed the phone back to the RTO, who quickly packed it up on the side. Howard waved his men in, and told them the game plan. "But we only just started!" Thorne said in mock protest, Howard smiled "Maybe if your good and eat all your K rations, we'll stay out latter next time Larry." The Suom smiled ear to ear and gave him a kurt nod.

They packed up their gear, and set off for LZ Mark. Howard placed them in a long file, enough space between them to let a man fight his own battles. A good snake eater didn't get sloppy, so they moved quick, silent, and with eyes on their ass, less the enemy pursue them. They moved fast and light, silent, a skill most special forces soldiers learned early on. He remembered his fathers stories from his time in the Army, having served in the Airborne, how tough it had been, and pushed himself. If his old man could do it, so could he and then some.

They entered an semi open patch of jungle, waist high grass with a wave of trees above covering them as they moved. Fighting through it made his skin sore, and cut up his arms but he ignored it.

One forgets about pain when their in Indian country. Pain goes away, being dead doesn't. The none issue boots Robert wore made little sound as the crushed through the brush. To his right, Throne trudged too, his rifle older then he, held at his chest. In a John Wayne film, they would have made snappy remarks, but here in the shit, you stayed quiet.

The crash of brush to his right told him then, that something had gone wrong.

Very wrong.

With a sharp cry, one of the Berets fell as if someone had curved a hole beneath him with a yelp. The man next to him turned and aimed his MP-40 at the spot his comrade had once stood in, he moved closer...only to be pulled under the overgrowth as well, his finger hitting his trigger and a steam of 9x19 bullets cutting into the canopy above as he vanished beneath the green.

For a moment Robert froze, but only for a moment, at once he raised his voice "GO"! and charged forwards. Something was picking them off in the underbrush, like a shark on land, and he sure as hell wasn't about to stay and see what it would do next. The other men followed, sometimes fear was the best motivation. He pumped his arms as he ran, his CAR-15 swaying at his side, He heard something rush towards him through the grass, like the wind in leaves but louder, his instinct to over, that animal brain that sat dormant inside his skull, and told him to _duck_.

He did it one better, jumping forwards and pulling himself into a role, he felt his weapons stock dig into his side but as his head tucked rolled against the ground, he heard whatever was chasing them move past with a horrid hiss. Throwing himself up onto his knees, he let lose with his carbine, flipping it to rock 'n roll and felt it dig into his shoulder as he cut down grass in spades.

With it, the nails on a chalkboard cry of a Neuroi followed. Over his shoulder, he heard Thorne's rifle join him in firing, the rushing sound grow dimmer as it seemed to retreat away from the team. Yelling over his shoulder, Howard screamed for the rest of the team to move. The two men that had been attacked were dead. Unless they wanted to join them, they needed to get the hell out of here.

The LZ was only a a stones throw away, the half dozen soldiers no longer cared about noise, hauling ass as fast as their legs could carry them, one or two firing weapons over their shoulders to ward off anything else that might have followed them. The steady thump of a Huey's blades sounded above them as the lime green aircraft hovered in an open clearing, a horrid hiss louder then the one the land shark had made before echoed behind them as a horde of the beasts broke from underneath the ground, Robert turned and fired a 40mm into the mass of evil, the shapes of worms with glowing red fangs greeted him, and were quickly blown to bits.

The door gunner fired his "60" over their heads, cutting into the Neuroi chasing them, the team clambered onto the bird like men clinging to a lifeboat after a shipwreck. "Get this mother in the air"! he heard Thorne scream, the dark headed Suom slapping one of the pilots on the shoulder for effect. Firing his CAR out the door as the Neuroi's beams cut all around the aircraft with an awful hiss, the skids had air between them and the dirt and the helicopter lifted itself into the sky.

Taking hold of the radio, now sitting on the floor of the aircraft having been shed by the exhausted RTO, Howard changed the freq to their fire support channel, a 105mm gun battery on the other side of the border, he wanted to make these bastards pay for killing his men.

"Brass Rain-6, this is McCain, requesting fire on LZ location, grid sierra echo, 118 901, unknown number of enemy foot mobiles in the open, five rounds, how copy"? The gruff buzz was replaced in a moment with the gruffer voice of an artillery officer "Copy your grid, firing." It would take a few minutes for the rounds to land, but as they escaped, he watched the LZ get peppered with 105 shells, blowing the enemy to bits and cratering the clearing.

"Brass Rain-6, rounds on target, enemy is retreating, i count two dozen Novembers KIA. Thanks for the assist, over"

"Anytime McCain, Brass Rain out."

Howard wasn't sure what he felt, sadness over the loss of friends, joy at the enemy's demise, or pride in a mission accomplished. All he felt was numb, but he supposed. Numb wasn't dead.

 **...**

 **In 1962, the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam or MACV was formed in response to the increasing use of US Military personnel in the defense of South Vietnam. Among the steps it took, was the formation of the Studies and Observations Group (SOG) a joint US Military-CIA unit, tasked with** **strategic reconnaissance, capture of enemy high value personnel, and other harassing activities against North Vietnam.**

 **Among the marines, sailors soldiers and airmen who made up the SOG program, stood two men. Robert Howard, and** **Lauri Allan Törni or Larry Thorne. Howard, is known today as the most decorated soldier in US Army history, having been put up for the medal of honor on three separate** **occasions, among earning numerous other awards, and Thorne, having served in both the Finish, and German armies during WW2, earning himself a M** **annerheim and Iron cross, for his troubles. Both of them fought, and in Throne's case, died in in SOG, fighting the types of battles we think only exist in film and print, but both men lived lives that seem straight from fiction.**

 **During the war, the North utilized a series of trails along the Laotian and Cambodian borders, for keeping its forces supplied. These routes quickly became (In)famous as the Ho Chi Minh trail, the North's main supply route into the south, and one of the major keys to their victory. Many soldiers died on it, some in battles between men in tiger stripe and men in NVA and VC uniforms, some to bombs from the skies above, and many to nature itself, the true killer and only** **benefitionary in war.**


End file.
